Haven't I Seen You Before?
by bonniesansclyde
Summary: To anyone who didn't know him, John Watson would look weird. As it was, he was sitting in a booth on the edge of a room, full of people having... well having sex. But the weird part was, he didn't look phased at all. It was as if he were simply at a normal pub watching the rugby game, not at a sex club watching a different kind of sport.
1. Sex Club of Sex

To anyone who didn't know him, John Watson would look weird. As it was, he was sitting in a booth on the edge of a room, full of people having... well having sex. But the weird part was, he didn't look phased at all. It was as if he were simply at a normal pub watching the rugby game, not at a sex club watching a different kind of sport. It was almost as if he came to watch, that he was a voyeur, but that was not the case. He didn't get off on it, and never made any move to even try. He simply sat. And watched.

Across the room, sat another man, similar to John in his careful watching. Except it wasn't the sex that he was watching (which was hard to do, given how many people visited this particular bar). No, he was watching John, and he could not help but wonder why he was even here, if it was not to participate. He had guessed that it was for later use, that he just cared too much that people might see him do the deed, that he wanked later at home. But that didn't seem right either, because then he would be getting some sort of satisfaction out of watching. He just sat, and observed. And as the man observed John observing, he noticed another man, much to aggressive looking for his taste, walking up to John.

There was a quiet conversation as the man leaned over into John's space, a silent rejection coming from John, that put the one watching on edge. It wasn't long before John's lips were attacked by the man in front of him, all the while being pushed away. The other man just stared. "Should I help him?" he thought, already getting out of his chair. He had only made it halfway across the room, and the man was pinning John down with his legs, struggling to get a good grip on his assailant.

"Excuse me, but I believe it is common custom to stop when someone is fighting back. Don't you agree?" As he said this, he hit the pressure point on the back of his neck sending the man tumbling to the floor. John just gaped at them both, breathing heavily though a little shakily. The man took that as a confirmation and proceeded to drag the assailant over to a security guard who was far too caught up in the couple in front of him to notice the scene that had just unfolded.

"Could you deal with this?" He sneered gesturing towards the man, by his feet. "Then you can get back to shirking your duties." He dropped his grip, and then promptly made his way back to John, making a quick stop at the bar for a glass of water.

He held it out, sitting next to John and looking him over. No signs of injury, which was good, but the fact that there would be bruises was apparent. "Thank you..." John trailed off, taking the glass from him. "Sherlock." He replied curtly. "Well thank you, Sherlock, but I could have handled that myself."

"Yes, of course." he said looking him over once more. "Army doctor, just from the war, should be able to. But you can't. Most likely because of your leg. Psychosomatic by the way, shouldn't worry too much. You couldn't get much leverage on him. Honestly, I did you a favor. That guy was far too vulgar." John was staring at him, and all Sherlock could think was that he had done it again. He pushed someone else away with his freakish observation skills. He got up to leave, not wanting to hear the rejecting from the man himself, when he was stopped by an arm grabbing his. "Wha- How did you do that?"

The look on John's face was not one of horror or anger like Sherlock was expecting, but wonder, pure astonishment, mixed with a little bit of curiosity. "It's... it's simple really." He took a deep breath and closed his eyes before he began. "You are sitting facing the door. You always do, as if you are afraid of what could sneak up on you. So, army. Then there's your reactions. It seems to me, that you are more concerned about the safety of those fornicating around you than the actual sex itself, so you have some involvement in their health, even to a small extent. Doctor. Your limp is almost nonexistent when you walk up to the bar, and you barely use your cane at all. But it still bugs you, like an itch you can't scratch, so it is not just for show. It does actually hurt you." He paused to look at John again, whose face had stayed with that look of wonderment from before. "So, yes, you should have been able to have taken care of it. I was just trying to be nice. Won't make that mistake again."

There were a few moments of silence while John processed this. "You've been watching me..." He finally said and Sherlock cringed. "Yes, I have." There was no way around it. He did just confess to watching John from across the room, everyday he was there. But it wasn't what John thought. He was an oddity, a misplaced man. Someone at a sex club, but not for the sex. But what for?

John was staring at him, obviously waiting for an explanation as to why he was watching John. "Why do you come here? It's not for the sex, you never participate. Or even react at all. It's... interesting." You're interesting. He added in his head, but it was likely that that would send him off and then he would never see him again. He couldn't let that happen. John shrugged. "Why do you watch me?" There was a challenge in his tone and it made Sherlock shiver just thinking about the implications. There were no signs of arousal from him, but then again, he was a sex club without any effect at all so there was probably something else going on.

John downed the rest of his drink and grabbed his coat off of the set next to him. "Well it was nice talking to you, Sherlock was it?" Sherlock nodded. "Thank you and all that." Sherlock barely had anytime to say anything before he had put on his coat, and walked to the bar to pay his tab. There seemed to be less of a limp in his step, and Sherlock took that as a good sign.

They didn't see each other for another month, but that was under completely different circumstances.


	2. Heading Towards Distraction

John couldn't face going back to the club again; it was just too embarrassing. He had let himself get assaulted like that, like he swore he would never let happen again. He should have been able to handle it, honestly, he had gone through extensive training from his days in the military. But he still couldn't handle it despite that. The only thoughts that were running through his head were similar to those in Uni, but he should have known better. And then _he_ had to step in. That snarky bastard who didn't even know who he was. So here he was, embarrassed and without a club.

It happened later on in the week.

John startled awake shaking and with the indescribable urge to scrub himself raw. It hadn't happened in years, maybe even before his deployment. He thought that he was over this, had even stopped seeing his therapist, or at least saw her for a different reason. But apparently not, because he was still haunted by that face. John practically ran to the shower, turning it on cold before immersing himself into the water, hoping to wash away any trace of what that man had done to him. He knew it was pointless, it was years ago, so how could he fix it now?

All he could do was live life one day at a time, and pray for a better one.

There were bags under his eyes as John looked in the mirror before he left for the day. It wasn't unusual for him, he always had them. But for some reason it was like it was a mark of shame, like he had regressed further, even though they had not changed since the day before. He looked defeated, like a man out of energy, out of life, with nowhere else to go. He had decided that maybe a walk in the park was a better option than the one that lay in his desk drawer, so, getting dressed, he walked out the door and headed towards distraction.

It was a nice day out, and he even was starting to enjoy himself. As he walked, he found that London wasn't all that bad, if you ignored the hustle of the people trying to get to the places they needed to go, or the homeless wandering about. It was busy, but not in a suffocating way. He was so busy in his own thoughts that he almost missed the small "John! John Watson!" coming from the bench he had just passed.

"Yes, yes, sorry. Yes, Mike, hello." He mumbled after his brain had caught up with him. He never particularly liked Mike Stamford, but then again, he had never really made good friends with anyone after the incident. He made do with the one friend in his lab partner, which happened to be Mike, and only for school related things. He never went out for drinks when offered.

After getting coffee and talking for a while, they landed on the real problem: John was running out of money for a flat. No big deal, he would just have to find a flatshare with someone. But it wasn't like anyone would want him for a flatmate. He was crippled, in more ways than one. He was damaged, and would probably keep them up all night with his problems, or being a nuisance in general, he tended to do that.

"Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?" There was a pause and Stamford just laughed, enjoying his own personal joke. "What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today." He said conspiratorially after collecting himself again. It was strange, but John couldn't help the feeling that Mike was up to something, like he knew something that John himself did not.

Pushing aside his worries, he replied as smoothly as possible, "Who was the first?"

Sherlock was busy analysing a sample under his microscope when he heard two sets of feet approaching the door. One was obviously Stamford. Sherlock could tell his wobbly step from miles away. But the other, was someone that he hadn't met before. No, wait, he had, but for the life of him he could not remember where it had been. It wasn't someone from Bart's, he had memorized all of them in order to tell who was coming and going without having to look up.

His question was answered a couple seconds later when none other than, John Watson walked into the lab. John Watson, the man that Sherlock had saved only a month ago, was standing only feet from him and he didn't even make a move to show that he recognized the man in front of him, the man that saved him.

He looked terrible. His clothes were a mess, obviously hadn't been washed in weeks, and his hair was dirty as well. He looked near death, like he hadn't slept in days. The bags under his eyes much more prominent than when they had seen each other at the club. Or had John even seen him? It was rather dark in the bar maybe he actually didn't recognize him.

As he pondered this, John managed to move his way to the end of the room and look about, like he didn't look like he was about to fall over at any second. That was when it struck him. John may not have seen him, but he had definitely heard him. Sherlock leveled his voice out and mumbled, "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

John paused and looked at him. There was a hint of recognition in his eyes, but only for a second. Like that it was gone in a flash. He pulled out his own phone, oddly enough and handed it to Sherlock. "Er, here... use mine."

Sherlock scrolled through it for a little bit before mumbling, "Afghanistan or Iraq."

There was a silence as John just stared at Sherlock. "How did you... Haven't I seen you before?" John asked, self consciously looking over at Stamford. "Well not seen you. But you know, it was dark," He added a couple seconds later.

Sherlock looked through the phone and sighed before looking back over at him. "Nope. Don't think so."

John gave his a disbelieving look but just continued on as normal talking with Stamford. Sherlock's brain shot through all the possibilities of why John was here in the first place. He could just be visiting his old school. There wasn't anything weird in that. But no, he could have gone to any lab, yet they chose the one that he was in. So, he was here because previously Sherlock had mentioned to Stamford that he was in need of a flatmate. Mycroft's orders that he no longer live alone. Something about temptation or some other. He had deleted it minutes after.

"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock said, not lifting his gaze from the microscope. _Wouldn't want to be too forward_. He smiled at his own sense of humor.

"I'm sorry, what?" John began but was silenced when Sherlock continued his thought.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other," he said, gathering his things and cleaning up his previous experiments.

"Who said anything about flatmates?" John said, and the rest of the conversation was a blur of observations, resulting in a dumbfounded John and a very giddy Mike Stamford.

"Wait, hold on. I don't even know your name." John added once he again found his voice.

Sherlock smiled and peeked his head around the door.

****"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221 Baker Street. Afternoon." And just like that he had swept away with a grin on his face, and a bounce in his step.


End file.
